


Angel's

by slushyNinja



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Post-Canon, basically if Collins ever got his restaurant, this is just a short description that's literally it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:58:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5213714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slushyNinja/pseuds/slushyNinja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was a boxy, sandstone-colored place, a three-dimensional rectangle that seemed to have just materialized out of the desert sand. No one was quite sure when the restaurant had appeared, but locals swore that it had been sometime after ‘92 and sometime before ‘96.<br/>Despite its obscure beginnings, it was peaceful, welcoming in its own, nondescript way."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angel's

**Author's Note:**

> if angel has to die, collins has to at least get his restaurant. lol it's not even in santa fe, it's just outside santa fe.

San Jose, New Mexico, 1998.

 

It was a boxy, sandstone-colored place, a three-dimensional rectangle that seemed to have just materialized out of the desert sand. No one was quite sure when the restaurant had appeared, but locals swore that it had been sometime after ‘92 and sometime before ‘96.

  
Despite its obscure beginnings, it was peaceful, welcoming in its own, nondescript way. Every now and then, a tumbleweed would bounce by; they always seemed to venture through the area cleared for cars (sandy and free of brush, but hardly a parking lot), as if beckoning to passing travellers.

  
Rare was it that the neon red sign at the door flashing ‘OPEN’ ever seemed to stop. It wasn’t necessarily surprising- it wasn’t as though there was a line of people waiting to enter the tiny roadhouse- but aside from Christmas, the eatery was never closed. The statement was literal, right down to the doors. They never seemed to shut completely, the heavy tinted glass always ajar slightly, save for days on which dust storms overtook the town.

  
Occasionally, a man would stand out front. There were always three constants to his attire: a woolen cap atop his head despite the scorching heat, dark eyes that seemed to carry an unrelenting sadness, and a smile like an oasis. He was a broad man, but he seemed to be the kind that used his stature to shoulder burdens rather than pick a fight. There was something about the way he carried himself that made him seem like the sort of man that would trade good food for easy conversation with little trouble.  
On the nights when music floated through the doors of the restaurant, the man never stood outside.

  
The place always seemed to give off a soft glow, blending right into the azure of New Mexico’s night. The brightest thing about it was by far its nameboard, lit up in the same red neon block print as the ‘OPEN’ sign was, though this lettering never seemed to malfunction. It cut through the daylight and melted into the night, always present, never dimming, never stopping.

  
It was an odd name, a simple name: Angel’s.


End file.
